Clever men
by Daria234
Summary: Neal and Peter are too clever for their own good. They keep almost kissing, almost being honest, etc. But then they don't. Neal/Peter pre-slash, don't read if you don't like. Not OT3. UPDATED
1. Buyer beware

Peter finds it easier when they're at homebase.

But when they have to travel for an out-of-town case, he can't ignore it.

In the two-bed motel room (can't let Neal be on his own or who knows what he might get up to), there isn't much for privacy. Not that Neal would respect his anyway.

As Neal brushes his teeth, lounging shirtless in his satin pajama pants, he grins a sudsy smile at Peter, trying to make him laugh. Peter manages to roll his eyes instead of smiling back, and continues reading case files as he sits on his bed, back against the short hotel headboard.

But when Neal's done brushing and rinsing and whatever else he does, he comes and sits down on the foot end of Peter's bed.

And he stares.

"What?" Peter says, testily.

A smile. Like a snake.

A really really good-looking snake, sure.

But Neal Caffrey always has an angle.

And Neal just says, "I think it's time you kept your promise."

Peter sets his file down and narrows his eyes at the man on his bed. He doesn't look at his chest. Or his stomach. Or his mouth.

He just says, "What promise?"

Neal smiles. "You own me. For four years. That's what you promised me. Total ownership."

And Neal gives him an innocent look. As if he hasn't just blown up the sexual tension mine that they had been dodging for years.

The innocent look that had fooled many lesser men into forgetting their good sense.

But then, these men were less suspicious by nature than Peter.

So Peter's response was an innocent smile of his own. And he said "That's right. And when I say to go back to your own bed, you do it."

Neal smiled and said "Make me."

"You don't want that."

"Won't know unless we try," Neal said with a raised eyebrow and a smirk, "Come on, Peter. You own me now. Let me know it."

Peter leaned forward, gave his best badass-agent glare, and got right in Neal's face. And he said, "Go back to your bed or I'll make you wear the same brand of suit that I do."

Neal stared at him for a second, and then quickly said "Okay" as he hustled to the other bed and got under the covers.

Peter smiled at his tiny victory. But there was a part of him that knew that with Neal, every victory was short-lived.

* * *

Author's Note: Originally written for comment_fic on livejournal. Prompt was Neal/Peter, ownership


	2. Not Jealous

Written for comment_fic on livejournal. Prompt was Neal/Peter, slip of the tongue.

* * *

Peter hated it when Neal sulked. He knew he shouldn't care, that it wasn't his job to protect Neal's delicate feelings.

That Neal's delicate feelings were a big part of the reason Neal couldn't hold down a stable life without someone watching his every move.

But for whatever reason, he hated it when Neal just went silent. As if Peter's honest opinions were cause for Neal to act as if some great and mighty injustice were committed against him.

This time it was because, while driving to the next lead they were following, Peter had tactfully suggested that Neal could use his many skills and talents other than his flirtatiousness (or seductiveness or whatever Neal thought of it as).

Well, okay, maybe Peter didn't say it that tactfully. Maybe he had said, "You know, Neal, every decade or so, you might try accomplishing something without basically offering someone your body."

Neal had stared at him in surprise. He thought his persuasiveness with the witness would impress him, Peter knew. Neal barely hid his anger as he responded, "So you're basically saying what, Peter? That you think I'm some kind of man-whore?"

Peter knew that this was something Neal was insecure about. He wasn't able to find absolutely everything about Neal's past, but he knew enough. There was a reason Neal flirted with everyone but actually slept with very few people.

So he should have known to be sensitive. He should have thought of Neal and not of that witness whose hands kept giving Neal 'friendly touches.'

But he didn't. Instead, when Neal asked if Peter thought he was a whore, Peter replied, "What would you call someone who can't do their job without using their sexuality?"

Yeah, that was the wrong thing to say, Peter knew. And it wasn't even honestly how Peter felt. He was honestly frustrated that Neal didn't have more self-respect. Or at least self-restraint. And he didn't want Neal to think that working for Peter meant seducing every witness, criminal, or cop they saw - it made Peter feel less than clean about their arrangement. Not to mention a few less altruistic reasons that Peter was pissed off.

He looked over at Neal, who was still silently fuming, staring out the window, head turned away. Peter struggled to find something to say, but there really wasn't a way to say everything, and so there wasn't really a way to say anything. And his guilt was more than a little tempered by his continuing anger, both at Neal for practically feeling up the witness in front of him, and at himself for how uncharacteristically stupidly he was handling it.

Finally it was Neal who spoke. "You know, Kate never tore into me for just flirting with someone," he said, accusingly, with visceral bitterness.

Without thinking, Peter snapped, "Well, Elizabeth never makes me wonder if she's dating a baseball team behind my back."

Neal looked at him, then, outrage clouded by some other feeling. They looked away from each other quickly, both trying to focus on their anger at the other person, both trying to ignore the fact that they had made the same alarming comparison, the same slip of the tongue.

_We're not that kind of partner,_ he reminded himself. Neither of them looked at each other for the rest of the ride.


	3. The Apple

Things were tense for a while.

Neal would still flirt with everyone. Afterward, he would make a point of telling Peter how sexy or talented or nice that person was. Peter thought maybe Neal was trying to prove that his flirtation wasn't all con, or that there was nothing wrong with giving special attention to those he was honestly appreciative of.

Maybe he was trying to make Peter jealous.

Either way, Peter was going to ignore it.

On the job, though, Neal seemed to be doing as well as ever. He continued to work as though he had something to prove.

And Peter wanted him to prove it; he'd become irrationally invested in the idea that Neal would be fine if he just figured out that using his smarts to do good things was a better way to live. Peter wondered about himself sometimes, and why he wanted this so badly. He kind of wanted to talk to Elizabeth about it - she was better than anyone he knew at cutting through the bullshit, which was one of Peter's big turn-ons -- but this seemed more like something that he wasn't quite ready to tell her about.

Because Peter was damn confused about his newfound obsession to turn Neal into something else. Because Peter wasn't the 'save-the-damsel' type. ,

Sure, he would lay down his life to protect someone. But that was just part of his job responsibilities.

And maybe it's possible that he had strong protective instincts. Maybe the thought of someone hurting what he cared about filled him with something strange and sharp and unnervingly amoral. But it's natural for people to protect those around them.

But the kind of guy that needs to save people? The kind that need to play Prince Charming or the white-hatted cowboy or whatever other megalomaniac fantasy was the flavor of the day? Peter met guys like that in the FBI all the time. And he definitely wasn't that.

For one thing, those guys weren't usually good agents. They got distracted. And if there was one thing Peter wasn't, it was distracted.

But for another thing, Peter saw them as ... well, as silly. They wanted to ride in to a sea of adoring faces who desperately needed them. They wanted lives accompanied by soundtrack and flattering light.

And their desire to save was always about themselves more than about the person being saved. Especially the Henry Higgins types who thought it was their job to save some pretty young thing from their wicked, wicked ways. Peter knew damn well they just wanted a thing to play with, to show off, to own. They wanted their perfect Galateas, their practically dead Snow Whites and Sleeping Beauties. They wanted to sculpt something else where there was once a self-defined individual, and then feel morally superior for doing it.

Basically, Peter thought Prince Charming was kind of a douchebag.

Which is why it bothered him to no end when he realized that was what Neal was turning him into.

Quite possibly with full intent.

The time in Neal's room, for instance. Earlier that night, Neal was charming the suspect, a pretty young executive with two sets of record-books and a reputation for partying. The plan was to get her to invite Neal to her house where she would, if her exes were any indication, offer Neal an illegally smuggled cigar and maybe some real absinthe, at which point there would be enough reason to get a warrant for what they were really after - the books; they would then execute the warrant the next morning while she was at work.

Peter didn't much like the plan. Especially since he had recently made a big rather moralistic speech about how Neal is not there to use sex - or the promise of it - to get what they wanted. But Hughes had some personal stake in seeing her bosses fall, and Hughes pretty much always got what he wanted. Especially when he mentioned to Peter, yet again, that Neal would be headed back to prison just as soon as he stopped proving useful.

So it was a surveillance van outside of a crowded nightclub, and Neal in a ridiculously shiny blue metallic shirt, and tight jeans that were ever-so-fashionably low on the hips, and Peter honestly had no idea men wore jeans like that. Apparently, the suspect liked them, though, because soon she and Neal were chatting it up like old friends. When Jones and Cruz had smiled at how quickly Neal had gained her interest, Peter was expressionless.

At the suspect's insistence, she and Neal soon had a little drinking contest; Neal's many, many shots were - naturally - taken directly from her belly button. There was much cheering from nearby patrons who suddenly found Neal and his new friend impossible to look away from. Peter watched on the monitors in the van without showing any reaction until Neal excused himself to go to the men's room and then collapsed halfway there.

It turned out that Neal, the great connoisseur of wines and fine liqueurs, was a bit of a lightweight.

Luckily, he got up right away, grinning as if the world were still his oyster even if he literally lacked the wherewithal to take a piss.

But his steps were unsteady and he was obviously lacking judgment, and before he could get himself in trouble, Peter decided to send Cruz in then. She looked most passable for a nightclub once she added some lipstick, took off her blazer, and tied her blouse into a half-shirt, and she pretended to be Neal's ex and took him aside to yell at him (actually telling him to go back out to the van). Peter handed the op off to Jones, then, as a drunken Neal tried three times to climb up into the van until finally Peter decided it was time to take him home.

Peter wanted to get Neal an IV drip just in case of alcohol poisoning but Neal insisted he was fine, so it was back to June's place. On the drive over, Peter called Jones and discovered that not only had the suspect believed Cruz was Neal's ex, she was so relieved that Cruz wasn't mad at her that she bought her a set of shots of her own. Soon they were drunk and bonding over the fickleness of beautiful men, and soon after that, Cruz had surreptitiously spilled a Cosmopolitan on her shirt and gotten an offer to go back to the suspect's apartment to wash it before the stain set. Cruz got the same offer of hospitality that all her other guests did.

Smiling over at Neal on the passenger side, Peter gently mocked, "Would you like a list of all the things Cruz did better than you tonight? Holding her liquor is just the first one."

Neal just smiled and slurred, "You look really HOT t'night Peter. Really really really hot."

Peter rolled his eyes. "This is the same suit I always wear, Neal. And we both know you hate my suits."

"I do hate your suits. But I like you, Peter. You should just go naked, then I wouldn't have to try so hard to ignore your ugly ugly suits."

Peter stared forward in silence for the rest of the drive. The mocking would have to wait for it to be worth doing.

When they finally got there, Peter kept an arm around Neal to steady him on their way up. He plopped Neal onto the sofa to make him some coffee and a sandwich, under the belief that his old college remedy was a functional hangover prevention plan. But when he came back, Neal was snoring and drooling in a rather un-Neal-like fashion, head at an odd angle against the soft cushion of the couch.

Peter tried to wake him gently, with the back of his hand on Neal's shoulder, then his face. He tried yelling Neal's name then, only to have Neal start awake, say "Apples and stop signs are no way to make music machines," and then immediately fall back asleep. Peter didn't even want to know what kind of dream could prompt that declaration. He sighed, then, decided that he would just eat the sandwich himself on the drive home, and then went to pick Neal up and carry him into the bedroom.

Neal didn't wake as Peter set him down in the bed, or when Peter pulled off his shoes. His clothes didn't look like comfortable sleepwear but there was no way Peter was changing Neal's clothes while he lay there unconscious. _Even if it weren't Neal, I wouldn't do that,_ he thought.

Then he thought, _Dammit. Did I just think '**Even** if it weren't Neal'? Could my subconscious just give me fucking break once in a while?_

But he just sighed and pulled the covers up to Neal's neck, and tucked the top of the comforter snugly around Neal's shoulders.

And then the eyelashes fluttered open.

Neal looked confused, and Peter didn't know what to tell him. He could see Neal's mind race, and he knew Neal well enough by now that he could tell with some certainty which possibilities Neal was considering. First, Neal almost asked if this was a dream. But then he didn't. Then he looked around to see where he was. And then he almost asked Peter why he was standing over him, so closely.

But instead, Neal just said, "I was on the couch."

"Yes."

"I said you were hot."

"...Yes."

"Did you - Peter, did you carry me to bed?"

"It turned out to be more efficient than waking you up."

Neal smiled then and it looked, to Peter, disturbingly victorious. Peter was suddenly aware that he was still leaning over Neal, their faces closer than they comfortably should be.

"Get some sleep, Neal. If you keep getting too drunk to catch suspects - "

Peter was interrupted then by a quick movement. Neal's face moving upward, mouth nearing his mouth. A burst of the scent of tequila still on his breath, and then lips-lips-lips coming right at him.

Peter wanted to taste them and press into them, pushing them apart with his tongue. He wanted to make those lips moan things that Neal would normally be too charming or suave or retro or whatever the hell he was to say. Peter wanted those lips on every part of him, he wanted to smear his seed on those lips and kiss them clean, he wanted a whole flipbook of obscene images in that brief half-moment it took for Neal to move his drunken mouth up to his.

At the last second, Peter turned. Neal's lips landed on his cheek. Sweet and chaste.

Peter hated himself in that moment.

But he heard Neal say, "Why?" looking hurt and genuinely confused, as if no one had ever turned away from a Neal Caffrey kiss (and actually, as Peter thought about it, he might very well be the first). And Peter screwed his face into a neutral smile, so Neal wouldn't think that self-disgust was disgust at Neal. And he just said, "I'm trying to do right by you, Neal."

"That's stupid," Neal said with a smile again, "You're hot but stupid."

Peter grinned. He thought, and almost said, _That's what Elizabeth thinks, too,_ But instead he just said, "'Go back to sleep, Neal."

And Neal must have been quite drunk indeed. Because for once, he did what Peter asked without argument.

And as Peter left, as he descended the long spiral staircase out of the castle-like abode, Peter thought about how stupid fairy tales are.


	4. Close enough

Author's notes: First, thanks for all the reviews! I love 'em. This chapter is part of this series and takes place several months after the previous chapter, but it's in first person (Neal's POV). Later chapters might go back and forth between 1st and 3rd, but it will be clear who the narrator is if it's 1st person.

Warnings: violence and torture.

* * *

Fic:

Peter's face lights up as soon as he sees me. He runs toward me, saying my name, absolutely filled with joy just to be in the same room with me. But there's also desperation and need, and it's been so long since he's seen me, he can barely stand it. Other agents are there, Cruz and Jones and a bunch of others, and they're watching, curious. But Peter doesn't even care who's looking.

When he reaches me, he says my name again, softer. His hand caresses my face, and it's an exquisitely gentle touch, but it feels like a starburst on my skin. Peter gazes into my eyes then, his hand still cradling my cheek, and looks longingly at me, like he can't get enough of me. His face is so close to mine I can feel his breath as he says my name again, and this time his voice cracks with emotion.

"Neal."

This is actually happening.

You'd think it would just be a fantasy.

But this is real.

* * *

It started when I insisted I could go deep cover. I was pretending to be an antiquities thief who had robbed a gallery at gunpoint and who now needed a buyer; Peter had caught the guy who actually did that, and since he was about my build and height and hair color, Peter thought it was a good opportunity for me to prove my worth to the Bureau. But when it turned out that the buyer was some kind of big boss in some country even I've never been to, Organized Crime Unit decided I would make more contacts to see where the trail would lead.

Peter objected. Peter was overruled.

I kind of relished the idea of having some temporary freedom. They would have to remove the ankle bracelet, after all. But I had decided already that I wouldn't run. Which kind of made me think it was okay to tease Peter about the possibility of running. Just a little, to make his face turn that cute shade of red.

He didn't think it was funny. When he was done threatening me, even I didn't think it was funny. And the last thing he said before I broke contact was, "You know I'll find you Neal."

Shortly after, I was tied to a chair in an empty warehouse.

I hoped Peter was right.

One of the new 'contacts' I made recognized me from a previous job and knew that I wasn't even remotely who I claimed. Soon there were two large men in front of me whose sole task it was to get information from me. One of them liked to punch you in the gut right in the middle of a sentence, just so you wouldn't expect it. The other liked to show off his large curved knife, and speculate what he could do with it. They both liked talking about how my face would be 'less pretty' when they were done.

I sat there taking it. The quickest way to die would be to say "FBI" so I just made up stories. I had them convinced a couple of times, but then each time they would call the boss, he would say to keep working on me. To make sure.

Here's the problem. I didn't have the ankle bracelet. I had taken off the GPS cufflinks to throw it into one of their trucks so they could track some stolen goods. And I was still pissed that Peter couldn't take a joke - ever. So I didn't even call in that morning to tell him the agenda for the day.

So I knew that it was hopeless. And I sat there bleeding and crying and conning and begging and conning some more, and nothing changed. More hits, more cuts, more shocks.

And I didn't have any way to show it, or the energy, but I have never been so angry. Because I was going to die, alone and in pain, and I would never get to see Peter or Mozzie or Kate or Elizabeth again. I would never get to touch the real Mona Lisa, I would never overcome my fear of depths and scuba in a coral reef, I would never get to steal back that first thing that was stolen from me. I would never again get to those taste perfect chocolate croissants in Lyons with Kate. I would never get to tell Elizabeth that she's my hero and I want to be her when I grow up, and I know she would say that I am grown up and only a few years younger than her, but she would smile as she said it. I would never get to tell Mozzie that he had been a better friend to me than Kate was, or that he gave better blowjobs than she did, and I knew that Mozzie really really wanted to hear that second part.

But the thing that made me fume, the thing that gave me something to rage at instead of thinking about the painpainpain, was that I would never get to have Peter. I would never get to execute the long, slow seduction I had planned, and okay, I hadn't worked out all the details like 'married' and 'FBI agent' and 'in his custody' and 'probably mostly straight,' but the actual seduction part I had been thinking about for a while, and I was just so frustrated and furious and just in total denial that I would never get more than a damn pat on the fucking shoulder from Peter Burke, from the man who had defined the course of most of my adult life, first by chasing me, then by catching me, then by bringing me into his life. I was so damn angry at myself and the bastards who _just would not stop hitting me_ and yeah, mad at Peter, for not wanting to reveal his feelings for me, or - worse yet - for maybe not even having any.

But then everything was loud and bright and there were too many people there. And I thought I was either dead or hallucinating.

And then Peter runs toward me. And he says my name and his hand is on my face and he gazes into my eyes. And then I'm positive I'm dead or hallucinating.

But then it turns out I'm not. This is actually happening.

And maybe it's not really a caress. Maybe his hand is delicately pulling open my swollen-shut eyes so he can inspect my pupils. Maybe that desperation in his voice is for my safety and not my affection.

But apparently it's close enough for me. Because there's this part of me that enjoys it, seeing Peter absolutely fixed on me, like no one else in the world exists. And not because of the job, but because it's me, and he just can't get enough of me, and he never wants to do anything but pay attention to me.

And there's this rational part of my brain that's just barely working at this point, and it knows that this makes me a sick twisted fuck. The kind of guy who feels satisfaction that he was beaten half to death because it makes Peter sick with worry, unable to think of anything but finding and saving and comforting me. And I know this sick fuck part of me is not going away any time soon, and I know it's probably a big part of why Peter doesn't want to be with me, but right now I don't care because Peter's here and I'm alive and not dead, and his hand is on my face and he's desperate for me, his lips keep saying my name again and again and again.

And I want to smile but I can't move my face without more pain. And I want to look sexy, like those people who get saved by the hero in the movies, but I don't look sexy at all. Everything is bruised and swollen and there are little cuts all over, and my beautiful clothes are shredded and covered in blood and piss and tears and snot, and my face must look horrible, and I know that if I saw someone who looked like that, I might not want to touch them, but it's Peter, and Peter doesn't care about things like that, and Peter would never flinch, and Peter touches me and says my name and he wants so very badly for me to be aware enough to say something back.

So I do. And it hurts so much to move my jaw, and at first not even any sound comes out. But I try a couple more times and I can finally answer.

"What's the matter, Peter? Don't you trust me? I totally had the situation under control."

And Cruz and Jones and everyone else laughs, and they respect me now. And their pitying looks thankfully stop, since they take my quip as a sign that I'm still me, that I am resilient enough to survive this after all.

Peter smiles too, but he doesn't mean it. He knows that I like it when he smiles at my jokes. But he also knows that for me to make a joke that tactless, it must have been bad, every bit as bad as he had feared, and even as he smiles, even through my swollen eyes, I can see Peter's heart breaking right in front of me.

But he doesn't back away. He checks my pupils again, even though he has already checked them, and I tell myself that it's because he doesn't want to stop touching me.

"For a second there, I thought that you weren't coming," I croaked out, so only Peter could hear. I wasn't sure if it was a confession or if I was asking for something.

Peter's jaw tightened and I could see he was imagining me. He was thinking about how scared I was. I wanted to tell him that it was okay, that I was more angry than scared, but that wasn't really true since even though I had never been that angry, I was still more scared.

He inspects the other gashes and bruises on my face, and the ones hidden by my hair. Because he doesn't want to take his hands off me, I'm sure.

And his face is so close to mine. And his perfect mouth is so close.

And I could probably find the energy to move those meager few inches, to put my lips on his and finally get a damn kiss from the man I already thought of as the center of my life. And Peter wouldn't stop me, I know. After all this, there's no way Peter would add rejection on top of it. He would let me kiss him. Right now, he would probably let me do anything.

I see his mouth moving, and it seems like he's saying my name again. I think I should move toward him now, I think I should take my shot while I can. I see the pink lines of his lips, frantic as they move. I see hazel and tan and gold and all sorts of textures and lights. Then I see gray and then dark dark dark.

When I regain consciousness, it's a day later. Peter is by the hospital bed. He smiles at me and says my name again.

His mouth is still beautiful. But now it's not close enough to kiss.


	5. Knowing

Neal had some injuries but it wasn't as serious as it could have been. The men 'working on' him were apparently instructed to keep him alive and talking until their boss could confirm some answers, so it turned out that his tangle of lies really had kept him alive. For whatever reason, they hadn't hurt his hands, and if there was anything Neal cared about more than his face it was his hands. So he knew he should feel relieved and grateful and just happy that things worked out okay.

And he did feel that way. Some of the time.

He was told not to return to work for a few weeks, and for once, no one told him that he would be off to jail if he didn't prove useful to the FBI every damn day. He was allowed to recuperate at June's, and Peter visited him often, usually with Elizabeth. Neal was getting pretty bored, since he was supposed to spend as much time in bed as he could, so El would always bring him some reading materials. Neal would always look right at her and thank her. None of them would acknowledge that it was obviously Peter who picked out the books: art history books written to provoke with new theories rather than to document erudite knowledge that Neal already knew; classic lit that had a charming lighter side, like Dumas or Boccaccio or Murdoch; fashion and entertainment magazines; and a few wantonly trashy romance novels that disguised themselves as historical mysteries. Neal ran his hands over the book covers whenever he got them, let his fingers run across the flutter of pages. It had always been flattering how well Peter knew him. Okay, more than flattering. And Neal wasn't surprised that Peter didn't want to openly admit he had picked out these books, that he knew exactly which collection of printed words would delight Neal with their beauty, which would annoy him with their arguments enough to keep him occupied when he would rather be anywhere but sitting in bed, which would let him escape when he just wanted to stop thinking about anything. But Neal was surprised that Elizabeth went along with it, that she was allowing herself to be used a shield so that neither men would have to admit their closeness. There was a time when she would have smiled wide and asked Neal if it wasn't just the sweetest, cutest thing ever that Peter had picked out something nice just for him, and then they would both laugh together as Peter blushed and tried to frown. Neal wondered if maybe Elizabeth had at some point decided that Neal's not-so-well-hidden crush on Peter was no longer funny. But they were both nice to him, almost sickeningly nice. So nice that it was a relief when Peter started giving Neal stern warnings about not committing any crimes during his time off.

The days were boring, and as much as Neal wanted to be up and about, he was no fan of pain, and he wanted to be better faster, so he tried to follow doctor's orders as best as he could. Besides Peter and Elizabeth, Mozzie and June spent time with him during the day, with Mozzie usually snoring the night away on his couch.

The company didn't stop Neal from reliving what happened. The pain, but especially the dread, the certainty that he would never get out of there alive.

Whenever he couldn't stop thinking about it, he called Peter - invariably at truly awful hours -- to talk about marginally interesting things. Why people like Kandinsky for all the wrong reasons, why thin lapels only look good with certain kinds of fabrics, why risotto will never truly be out of style. He called so often, Elizabeth stopped waking up at the sound of the ringtone, and Peter would stop checking his caller ID before answering. The conversations were not all that engaging: Peter would grunt agreement or skepticism, and mostly just try to stay awake, but he would never hang up, and he would never ask why Neal was calling him so late to have such inane one-sided conversations.

That's the thing about Peter, Neal knew. He could always read Neal.

Of course this was also a problem. Because Peter had to know what Neal felt for him. Even when Neal did his best to pass it off as mere flirtation, or even as a type of antagonism, Peter - brilliant, perceptive, Peter, who knew him better than anyone - surely knew what Neal wanted. And Peter didn't ever suggest that it was even remotely mutual, never showed anything but the possessive protectiveness that probably characterized all of Peter's relationships.

So Neal went back on his promise to himself. That if he got to live, he would go after Peter, consequences and rejection and obstacles be damned. And Neal kind of hated himself for it.

But Peter really did care about him, Neal could tell. Wanted what was best for him, respected him for all the right reasons, enjoyed working with him. And that was more than Neal had gotten from most people in his life, and more than he ever thought he'd get from someone like Peter Burke. So he decided to make the best of it, to enjoy what he could have.

Friendship. Flirtation. Fun.

Nothing more.

When Neal returned to work, he gave the clear impression that he was there to solve crimes and have a good time. Nothing more.

Everyone was convinced, even, it seemed, Peter.

Neal really was a great conman.

* * *

Peter watched Neal closely when he finally came back to work. More closely than usual, which is to say, excruciatingly closely.

Everything healed nicely except for a small scar above his brow. So he looked the same. But he didn't act the same.

Neal seemed to throw himself into their work, taking even more initiative than usual. Even arguing with Peter about the best methods.

It felt a little like the old days, when he was chasing Neal. Like there was a friendly rivalry between them, each trying to impress, and to one-up, the other.

Peter didn't buy it.

He tried to get Neal to see the Bureau psychologists beyond the mandatory session, but that didn't work. And there was no use forcing the issue; if Neal wanted to persuade a mental health professional that he was doing fine, Neal wouldn't have too much difficulty.

So Peter did what he always did when things were uncertain.

He kept a close eye.

But he knew that Neal would also be keeping a close eye on him. So he did his best to hide the fact that he was avoiding putting Neal back in the field, by having some cases transferred to other divisions, by mentioning that Cruz and Jones would be up for a raise soon and so they needed as much fieldwork as they could get, by using any number of excuses.

It didn't work forever.

It was their first real argument since Neal had been taken. Neal insisted he was perfect to go undercover to gain the trust of the 'mark,' and Peter insisted that Neal was in no position to tell him how to run his op. Neal said that it was low-risk and that Peter was purposely choosing a stupid plan to keep Neal out of the field, and Peter, who liked to win their arguments, implied that Neal had some ulterior and likely criminal motive for wanting to be in contact with the money launderer. Peter knew it wasn't true, knew Neal was far past being tempted by the chance at some minor scheme, but he couldn't very well say, 'Sorry, Neal, but you're not over what happened, and I can't have you freaking out in the field, and besides the thought of putting you back out there makes me sick to my stomach.' So he accused Neal of trying for a side deal with the launderer and he waited for Neal to look wounded and persecuted and to sulk and complain.

Neal didn't. He just continued to argue that putting him in play was the better move.

And of course it was. Which meant that Peter had to concentrate on looking like he really believed that it wasn't.

He was so preoccupied he almost missed it. And then he realized, as close as he had been looking, he wasn't looking closely enough.

Neal needed this from him. He needed to go back into the field, and he needed Peter to believe that he could do it.

So Peter said yes. And he listened, barely breathing, to every second of Neal's interactions with the money launderer.

Neal was perfect.

The bust went off without a hitch.

And when Neal flashed his smile at Peter afterward, something loosened inside of Peter that he hadn't even realized he'd been holding onto.

* * *

Things went back to normal. Normal for them, anyway.

Neal seemed in good humors. He stopped his late night calls to Peter's house, and though Peter was no longer up on the latest happenings on the Berlin gallery circuit, he was getting more rest. The first time Neal went a week without calling, Peter asked him, only once, eyes glued to the files on his desk, "Sleeping well?" Neal just answered, "Much better, thanks," and continued talking about the case, and Peter could tell the answer was honest.

A few weeks later, Peter got some of Neal's medical forms, since all Bureau documents regarding Neal Caffrey went through Peter. He had a checkup with a plastic surgeon, and it didn't take much social engineering to find out that Neal had scheduled a session to get his scar removed.

Peter wasn't sure why Neal didn't mention it. It kind of bothered him that Neal didn't mention it.

But he didn't ask. Peter told Neal he was saving his life by giving him the chance to work for the FBI. And Neal almost died. Horribly. So it wasn't exactly Peter's right to demand that Neal talk about things he didn't want to talk about.

The day before the procedure, at the end of the workday, Neal told him.

"I'm getting this removed tomorrow," he said, running his finger along the scar.

Peter nodded.

Neal smiled as he rolled his eyes. "Of course you already knew that."

Peter knew most people would look apologetic for not respecting Neal's privacy. But they both knew that wasn't Peter's style.

Neal sighed. "Let me guess, you think it's vain. If it were you, you'd suck it up and wear the scar with pride."

Peter looked at him in surprise. "That's not even close to what I was thinking, Neal."

Neal pursed his lips. "It's not good for a conman to have identifying marks."

Peter smiled against his will and said, "Neal, it's not like anyone who's met you needs an identifying mark to remember you. Though to be honest... I'm not sure why you thought I would be against a medical procedure designed to address injuries incurred in the line of duty."

Neal smirked. He looked tired. He said, "Peter, you never cease to surprise me."

"Good. I want to keep you on your toes."

Neal smiled before turning serious again as he prepared to continue. "I just... don't like looking at it in the mirror. I know it's small, but... it reminds me."

This was the closest Neal had gotten to actually talking about what happened. Peter thought he would feel like he got the wind knocked out him if Neal ever brought it up, but he didn't. He felt sad and relieved and protective and close. He looked at Neal with a fixed gaze and answered, "To be honest, I don't much like looking at it either."

Neal let himself smile. "So you're saying you want my face pretty like it used to be?"

Peter actually looked thrown off for a second, it had been so long since Neal had flirted like that with him. But he answered, "We both know it would take a lot more than a little mark to make you less pretty."

A big grin from Neal. Peter braced himself for a renewed wave of innuendo.

Instead Neal said, "So if I decided against the surgery, you'd be okay with that too?"

Peter thought for a moment, then said, honestly, "I want you to do what's better for you."

"Might as well have it, then," Neal said, looking strangely relieved, "It's an extremely minor procedure. Local anesthetic, in and out the same day."

Peter nodded, then hesitated before asking, "But why tomorrow? Why not some other day?"

"I wanted it to be tomorrow. I thought it would be a good day for new beginnings."

Peter smiled. It was a very Neal reason. He said, "I'll pick you up after, and if you're feeling okay, you can come over for dinner. Elizabeth might even bake a cake if you play your cards right."

Neal smiled and nodded. "Sounds like a plan."

* * *

The next day, Peter picked Neal up from the plastic surgeon's. He had a small bandage on his brow, but otherwise looked well.

"Happy birthday," Peter said as Neal got in the car.

"Don't ask me how old I am," Neal warned.

"Like I don't know," Peter muttered.

"That's incredibly rude."

When Neal arrived at Peter's house, Elizabeth gave him a long careful hug. She told him that dinner would be done soon.

He grinned as he inhaled the aromas permeating the house. He said, "Osso bucco. Parmesan risotto. And... chocolate-orange cake?"

She smiled, "Way to ruin the surprise."

"You're the best Elizabeth," Neal said. He never felt as much at home as when he was here with them, soaking in the safewarmlove that imbued every inch of their house.

"Don't you forget it," she laughed and went back to the kitchen.

"Thanks, El," Peter said warmly as she left, making Neal smile. That was one of the things Neal loved about Peter, that he knew how great Elizabeth was and said so.

Neal was about to sit on the couch when Peter gestured for Neal to follow him upstairs. For a second, Neal thought about asking if he was going to finally get into their bedroom but he decided against it, not wanting to ruin it when they were being so nice. He followed Peter into the door at the end of the hallway and found himself crowded close to Peter in the tiny linen closet.

Peter said, almost gruffly, "I put your gift in here. Did you find it?"

Neal almost laughed. "Peter, I- .... No. I did not find it. I didn't even know you had a linen closet. You've never even let me upstairs before."

"You've had chances to look around."

Neal looked at him, curious. "I've never looked in here. And I didn't know you got me anything."

Peter looked reasonably assuaged. He reached behind a stack of towels to open a barely visible panel in the wall. There among a handgun and some papers was a small package wrapped in plain brown paper.

"You keep a handgun in the linen closet?" Neal asked amused.

"That's Elizabeth's. My spares are somewhere else."

Peter handed the wrapped package to Neal then, who gingerly opened it.

When he saw what it was, he stood silent.

Stunned.

He told himself to say something but all he could do was look up, breathless, at Peter.

When Neal was twelve years old, his most recent foster father's uncle was a retired art teacher. He saw Neal's drawings and had told him that he was very talented, and that nothing was more important than using your talents well. He gave Neal a set of pastel pencils and his old pencil case, an old-school, absolutely gorgeous sterling silver case with a hinged opening and raised swirls on the cover. He didn't ask for anything in return. Neal loved it, the way only children and thieves can love beautiful things.

When Neal's foster family found out, they accused Neal of stealing it, took the case away, and sent Neal back into the system. He was more upset about the pencil case than anything else.

Years later, Neal decided to get the case back. He searched the house while they slept, but didn't find it. Seeing the state of their house, he decided to try the local pawn shops, where he located it. He looked at all the silver pieces, carefully showing no special interest in any one item, and then came back at night after closing, breaking in without much trouble. As he ran his fingers along the old silver case, he wondered if he was being petty, if the great Neal Caffrey should really be stealing a $300 item from a pawnshop in the middle of nowhere. And... it just felt anti-climactic.

But it was the first thing that he cared about that was ever stolen from him. So he decided: he would leave it there, but switch the bag and tape it to the underside of a shelf so that nobody would be able to find it or buy it except him. And whenever he went through this part of town at night, he would sneak in and polish it so it wouldn't tarnish. And then, when he was ready to retire - when he was done with adventure and escapades and great magnificent thefts - he would come back and get it. The first thing that was stolen from him would be the last thing he stole. It was fitting.

Neal had never told Peter this. He had told so few people this, that he didn't even have any idea how Peter could have found this out. But there it was, in Neal's hand. And though both men were silent, the gift was saying a hundred things at once.

_I know you. I know everything about you._ Usually a terrifying sentiment for a con artist. But not this time.

_Now that you have this back, you're officially a retired thief._ A joke, a nudge, and an order, all in one.

_You don't have to steal any more. From now on, I give you what you need. _An echo of something Peter promised a long time ago. Total ownership.

And Neal knows this is crazy. That he hears all these things, that he's so fucked in the head that he needs to hear these things. Neal knows, but he hears them anyway.

And Neal had been doing so good at ignoring that swell of something foolhardy and desperate that rose in him whenever Peter got close to him. He had been doing so well at acting like he didn't mind being painfully, burstingly in love with a man who almost certainly thought of him with nothing more than a kind-hearted fondness and an intellectual respect.

And Neal knew at the back of his mind that he should be worried, that his defenses were falling away like old rust, that he was rapidly edging past pathetic and into purely hopeless, that he would lose the ability to act nonchalant and that Peter would have the upper hand forever.

But he couldn't bring himself to be worried at that moment. About anything. Because no one had ever gotten him a gift like that.

And then Neal can no longer ignore the fact that their bodies are so close, snug in the small linen closet, or that Peter's face is right above his, and is smiling. Peter's face, which is looking at Neal and is so happy that the gift means so much that Neal's eyes are nearly tearing up.

And soon Neal is staring at Peter's lips, wanting so badly to just feel Peter's arms wrap around him, and he's afraid to look at Peter's eyes suddenly, afraid to see that stern look that tells Neal no-no-no, and damn does Neal hate that look. But he looks at Peter's eyes anyway, and it's not that look at all, it's softer and more difficult to discern. Neal leans closer and tries to read that look, tries to read Peter the way Peter reads him. And Peter's lips twitch, like he's about to say something or do something, and Neal still can't figure out exactly what.

And then Elizabeth calls to them from the dining room downstairs, and a look glides over Peter's face, just for the tiniest of moments. And they head downstairs, and Neal puts the case in his jacket pocket and doesn't mention it the rest of the night. And Neal knows he should feel guilty as he grins his thanks to Elizabeth for the fabulous dinner, he should feel like a bastard and a shitty friend. And he does feel that way.

But he feels something else, too.

Because Peter was just inches away from Neal. And he had to have known that Neal was so damn close to kissing him. And then, when Elizabeth said their names, Peter felt guilt.

Guilt. Clear as day.

Neal, staring at Peter's lips, had made Peter think something that made him feel guilty at the sound of his wife's voice.

After that day, Neal was much bolder.


	6. Reasons

The worst part is that at first, Peter had wanted Neal to think of them as friends. It was simply the best way to keep Neal under control. With all the cons Neal had pulled over the years, Peter was pretty sure Neal had never really and truly betrayed a friend. In fact, there were times when Peter had missed the conman by a day or two, only to find out that Neal had decided his marks were too delightful to con out of their money. So making Neal like Peter, making him take the 'custody' arrangement like a personal arrangement, making sure Neal really knew that Peter had personally and professionally invested in Neal-- it was a risky play, but it had the best chance of getting Neal to act like a semi-law-abiding citizen for once.

And when Peter saw that Neal was becoming attached, maybe that Neal was even developing a little crush, Peter didn't nip it in the bud. He thought that maybe it would be a good thing.

So it's his own fault. Peter didn't expect a little harmless flirtation on Neal's part to become something that preoccupied so much of his mind.

* * *

Peter can practically taste the reasons it would be a bad idea.

Obviously: cop with a criminal. Bad.

Fed and the convict he caught, in his custody, one mistake away from a return to that prison? Worse.

Plus, they work together. Even if Neal were just another consultant, it would be a terrible idea. One or both of them could be distracted, or overly emotional in the field. Mistakes like that could get someone killed.

And then those criminal-type reasons again -- Neal, after all, hasn't changed that much: Neal could get cocky, think that he could get away with something, end up imprisoned again.

And Peter might plain old lose the ability to keep Neal in line. As much as he played the heavy, Peter wasn't sure if he could send someone to prison once they've shared their body with him. But then why the hell would he even think about that scenario. But if that happened - which it won't - Peter might not be able to keep Neal in line, and it was clear as hell that no one else has ever been able to either. And where would that leave Neal?

Not to mention his career. The humiliation of being seduced - i.e., conned - by the conman you made your stripes taking down. Not that the opinion of others mattered so much... but the idea that Neal might be making a fool of him stung, even just thinking of the possibility.

No, Neal wasn't faking his feelings toward Peter. At least, not entirely. He wasn't doing it to get something on Peter or manipulate him, at least not as the primary reason. Peter knew Neal well enough to know that. But he also knew that great conmen have a way of conning themselves, of buying into these grand delusions that get them into trouble. Romantic, idealistic, Neal who wouldn't know a drama-free relationship if it... well, he wouldn't know it. Neal didn't have enough sense to worry about what would happen if Peter and Neal started something but it didn't last.

Peter had plenty of worry to go around, though.

And those would all be reasons enough. But then there was Neal's past.

Peter knew that being good in bed was just another vital tool for a 'social engineering mastermind.' Actually, he thought about that far more than he had a right to. But it still made him cringe. And he wished desperately he could tell himself that Neal was such a good talker he never really needed to do anything else. But the thing was, Peter had chased Neal so long that he knew far more of Neal's former marks than he wanted to. They were an unlikeable bunch. And sometimes a dangerous bunch, if a con were to fall apart at just the wrong time. So it was with disappointment but not surprise that Peter had found out, years ago when he was first pursuing him, that Neal had occasionally solidified their trust by falling to his knees, by going on his back or on his stomach, by doing all sorts of things that Neal wouldn't want to do with these types of cold, foul-spirited people.

And then there were the elder con men who took Neal under their wing when he was young, eighteen or nineteen. And the times when he was that age, and he hadn't figured out yet how to not get caught, and Neal would do whatever it took to get a policeman or guard to let him go when they nabbed him. Plus, there were those years in France; Peter hated those years in France - it was so hard to get details on what Neal was doing during that period.

And Kate turned out to be playing him. And Mozzie, well, Haversham wasn't using him, but he clearly pined for Neal.

And it's not like Neal had anyone looking out for him when he was a kid, before he got handsome and smart enough to do for himself.

So all in all, Neal had never had anyone - in all his life - who just took an interest in him for his own sake, who believed in him and not because they literally wanted a piece of him. Nobody had ever cared about Neal without also wanting to use him or fuck him or both.

And Neal really, really deserved that. To have one person who wasn't there because of the eyes or the smile or the body or the charm. Who would never ever use him.

And maybe Peter isn't Neal's knight in shining armor, but he isn't going to be one more filthy thing clawing at Neal, pretending to care.

And that's one to hang on to. That's a really important reason, and Peter doesn't forget.

And there's no accounting for why Peter has to go through his list of reasons, counting through them, repeating, like a child with a collection of pretty things. But he finds himself reminding himself of these reasons, since Neal, for reasons unknown, started turning into a different person as soon as they were alone together, making every phrase or look some kind of not-very-subtle innuendo.

Okay, truthfully, Peter knows the reason. He was weak. For one moment, on Neal's birthday, Peter was weak, and he almost did something stupid. And Neal smelled weakness.

That's how Caffrey thinks. Give him an inch and he'll steal a mile. And a painting. And a diamond. And a cruise ship.

Another reason it's a bad idea - Neal has never done anything half way.

So Peter goes through the reasons. Again and again.

He's forgetting one.

That's right. Elizabeth.

Wait.

Why does he keep forgetting to put Elizabeth on the list?

No problem. Clearly, he was saving Elizabeth for last because she is the most important reason to stay away from Neal Caffrey.

Because she liked Neal, but she only liked him because she trusted Peter.

And Peter _definitely _didn't leave Elizabeth off the list because he forgot.

Groaning, Peter put his head on the desk. He was so screwed it wasn't even funny.


	7. Rules

Peter was worried about the Neal situation. Neal wasn't being subtle. Even by Neal-Caffrey standards.

In some ways, Peter was amused. It was a bit like being wooed by a Nineteenth-Century gentleman. With a dirty mouth.

Neal was being extra considerate, even... chivalrous. It really should have bothered him more, the way he would try to take Peter's coat before being shooed away.

Leaving Neruda poems on his desk was kind of heavy handed.

Opening doors when Peter's hands were full of case files... well, that was just useful.

It was a bunch of little strange things Neal did, though. Romantic, sweet, but odd things.

But none of Neal's words were sweet and innocent, as he laced every comment with double meaning.

Peter was careful to shut Neal down when he got like this. Which was often. It had gotten to the point where Peter could just give Neal a look, or say "That's enough, Neal," and Neal would back off. For a while.

Because Peter was going to have to be the one with sense.

It finally occurred to him though, that Neal should really be better than this at seduction.

Not that Peter was admitting that Neal was capable of seducing him.

Just that Neal was being almost clumsy in his pursuit of Peter. And Peter wasn't sure why.

Obviously, Neal was up to something. Not necessarily something malicious or even illegal. But something.

And it was Peter's job to find out before Neal wrecked his own chance at a better life.

So it wasn't with all that much guilt that Peter bugged Neal's apartment at June's house.

* * *

The sordid activities between Neal and his guests were not that interesting. Especially since guests meant Haversham and sordid activities meant conversations about their Top 9 favorite thefts in history, (Top Nine because nine is a square number, and to Haversham that's apparently important).

One night, their conversation turned to the subject of Peter.

He knew that he should feel bad for listening in, but, predictably, he didn't.

"So what about Peter?" Haversham asked.

Neal sighed, loudly enough for the bug to pick up. "No progress, I'm afraid."

"You're obsessed. Seriously, Neal, I think you have it worse for Peter than you did for Kate."

"You're not helping, Moz."

"Honestly, I have never seen you pine like this for someone who isn't even-"

"He's interested, Moz. I'm sure of it."

"He doesn't act like it. And it's a good thing he isn't, by the way. Not too smart to jump into bed with the guy who can send you back to prison if you don't feel like blowing him that day."

"Come on, Moz, you know Peter's not like that."

"Lots of suits seem nice at first. Remember Emile?"

Peter frowned as he listened in. Peter had no idea who Emile was. Sounded French, though. Peter hated Neal's time in France. A big giant hole in his knowledge.

Neal continued arguing, "Peter is NOTHING like Emile. Don't even say that, Moz."

"Fine, fine, Agent Peter Burke is all sunshine and rainbows. His heterosexual wife must really appreciate that."

Neal didn't answer, but Peter could guess the look on his face from hearing Mozzie's answer, "Yeah, that hit a nerve, didn't it?"

"Elizabeth's great," Neal said.

"I know. I like her too," Mozzie answered, "And how do you think she'll respond if you tell her you want to screw her husband?"

"I'm hoping she'll say the more the merrier," Neal said, trying to get a smile out of Haversham. Peter could tell that it didn't work.

"Neal, that's what _you_ would say. Not everyone responds that way."

"A guy can dream, can't he?"

"That's just it, Neal," Haversham insisted, his voice taking on a paternalistic tone that Peter was annoyed to realize he used often as well, "You are acting like your dream is going to become a reality, that there will be no consequences, and that-"

"Mozz! Relax! It's just a little infatuation." Neal said.

Peter frowned. From the sound of the answer, Haversham frowned too.

"Neal, don't try to play me. It's insulting. You are in love with a man and you have no reason to believe he remotely feels the same way."

Neal paused before saying, "I know."

Peter let out a breath he didn't realize he had been holding.

Haversham's voice was kinder now, "Neal, I'm sorry. I wish you could have your happy ending with Peter. But if you get involved with him-"

"Nothing to worry about, Moz," Neal answered, sounding annoyed and frustrated, "Nothing I do is working anyway, so you don't need to lecture me on the disadvantages of workplace romance, okay?"

Haversham paused and then asked, sounding confused, "What do you mean nothing is working?"

Neal sighed. "Nothing I do makes him like me any better. Every time I try to show interest, he gives me this look, like he wants to tell me to go to hell or something."

Peter closed his eyes. He felt a wash of guilt hearing the bitterness in Neal's voice.

Haversham, though, just repeated, still confused, "What do you mean nothing is working? Did you try the Looped Deloux? That would make anyone fall in love. No, wait, he's law enforcement. He might go for the Couer de Courage scam."

"Mozzie. I'm not doing that. He's too smart to fall for that."

"What then?"

"I'm not doing anything. I'm just trying to be nice. I'm like purposely not using what I know about him to play him. I don't want him to think... I mean it would kill me if Peter thought I was just conning him. So I'm just..."

"Being yourself?" Haversham asked.

"Yeah," Neal said.

"Oooh. Bad move. Even straight-laced folks are basically running a con when they try to date someone."

"Yeah. I know. But I don't want him to look back and think he was tricked into it."

Mozzie sounded confused again as he said, "You don't want Peter to look back? So you think this ridiculous plan is going to work and that Peter will look back on your bad seduction technique as a sign of your sincerity?"

"Sort of."

"Neal, you are a hopelessly deluded romantic. And a fool."

"What's that Moz? You think I'm very very romantic? Thanks."

Peter could practically hear Haversham's eyes roll. But as Neal changed the subject to avoid pursuing the argument, Peter thought about what he had heard.

Neal was in love with him. Not a crush. Not a scam. Actually in love.

Peter felt a tightening in his throat. Not just because he was starting to admit how much he wanted Neal, how much he ached for Neal. But also because Peter was worried. More worried than before. Because Peter had never met anyone more unpredictable than Neal in love.

And that made it all the more important that Peter remember every reason that this was a horrible idea. But it also reminded Peter that even when setting boundaries, he could still do his best to protect Neal.

* * *

The next day, when Neal tried his hand again at clumsy flirting, Peter was careful not to roll his eyes or give him that shut-up glare. He just smiled sympathetically.

He laughed at Neal's innuendos as if they were locker room banter. He thanked Neal politely but uninterestedly when Neal did little chivalrous tasks.

Finally, Neal burst out, "Why are you being so nice?"

"Why would I not be nice?" Peter said, innocently, then thought, _oh shit_, as he saw Neal's face fall.

Neal swallowed in anger. "Do you - know something? Did you - bug my place? _June's place!?"_

"Neal, don't be silly. Bugging you would just produce inadmissable evidence."

"You could bug me for your own information. Did you - did you hear what I said to Moz yesterday?"

Peter wanted to say no. But the hurt and resentment and anger in Neal's eyes made him not want to lie and make it worse. Besides, something was wrong when Peter lied to Neal more than vice versa.

So Peter just nodded and waited for the explosion.

There wasn't one.

Neal just thinned his lips and walked out.

Peter sighed, wondering what the effect of this would be.

Neal strode to his desk and started planning.

Peter was nice to him, he thought. After weeks of acting like he was one government form away from charging Neal with sexual harassment, now Peter was letting him down easy. Because poor sentimental Neal was so in love and Peter just felt so bad for him for having such a silly crush. _Peter,_ Neal thought,_ feels sorry for me. He pities me._

The thought filled the back of his throat with bile.

Because if Peter thought Neal was just a criminal lowlife or a dumb kid or a bad seed or unattractive or not his type or not worth the trouble, well, that would suck, and it would be beneath Peter to think it and beneath Neal to let Peter keep thinking it. But Neal could handle it.

But pity? Pity for Neal Caffrey? Not because Neal had manipulated someone into feeling sorry for him, just plain old, real pity? From, of all people, Peter?

_Hell, no. _

So Neal decided then that fair play - fumbling honesty instead of con artistry - was no longer a necessary rule. He would be happy to play dirty; after all, Peter the privacy-eater had played dirty by bugging him in the first place. And Neal was willing to bet he was a lot better at playing dirty than Peter was; he had a hundred tricks to make sure Peter wouldn't be able to get him out of his head, to make Peter obsessed with imagining all the things Neal could do with Peter's cock. And every other part of him too.

Normally, being so aggressive would backfire. A con usually means making the mark think he's chasing you.

But then Peter literally did chase him, so that wasn't really an option. Neal remembered then for a moment _the fervor_ with which Peter had pursued him years ago, when Neal was the young wunderkind who embarrassed the Feds by escaping again and again. Peter respected Neal then, saw them as rivals or equals or opponents, maybe as enemies, but at least on the same ground.

_That's it_, Neal thought. That's the key to Peter. Peter only_ thinks_ he wants new, straight-arrow Neal. Really he wants the man he chased.

Peter likes competition. Peter likes smart. Peter likes people who play to win.

And Neal was _definitely _going to win.


	8. Winners and Losers

Peter knew what Neal was after. And Neal knew that Peter knew what Neal was after. So really, since it was all in the open, there was nothing unfair about it.

Every man is weak given the right circumstances. And Peter was capable of showing weakness, of wanting what he was he was trying so hard not to want. So the trick would be to give Peter enough rope to hang himself with.

Of course normally, this kind of attack would never work. The mark would suspect something, would get scared, would run screaming in the other direction.

But this was Peter. Peter already knew what Neal was after. His eavesdropping habit ensured that, Neal thought, still annoyed that Peter had gotten one over on him. A lot more than annoyed, actually. Violated, betrayed, rejected, all in one.

But because of work, Peter had to be around Neal constantly. Peter sure as hell wouldn't let cases go unresolved - or let Neal get sent back to prison - just because he felt uncomfortable. Neal knew that for sure.

So there were none of the usual pitfalls of aggressive tactics. Peter wasn't about to run from him, there was no way for Peter to avoid him without calling undue attention to their relationship. And it would just be too embarrassing for Peter to admit that he couldn't handle Neal's attentions, so Neal pretty much had free rein, he figured. So his plan was just to apply constant pressure, in every direction he could, and then wait. Pressure + time can make anything fall to pieces, no matter the resistance; a fact equally applicable to art restoration or social engineering.

So the looks and innuendos continued. But they weren't all.

Neal went back to flirting with witnesses, agents, and consultants. A little jealousy never hurt.

Sometimes he would ask Peter for a ride to work, insisting that he had to show Peter the break in the case he made right away. Neal of course would be in the shower when Peter knocked, forcing Peter to go into the bathroom to yell at him. He would come out then with his towel just a little lower than it should be, just to see Peter blush.

Publicly, of course, he acted indifferent to Peter as much as he could without it affecting the job.

But then a few times a day, he would find some excuse to get close to Peter. He would brush up against him, pat his shoulder and let his hand linger too long. Read the files over Peter's shoulder, getting far closer than he needed to. Inhale near Peter's neck and talk about how good he smelled. Find some reason why the information needed to whispered in Peter's ear, tongue accidentally touching Peter's earlobe once in a while.

Ridiculous things. Things that adolescents try. But things also that made Peter constantly aware of Neal's physicality.

Neal would be even more direct after a while. Maybe direct wasn't the right word. Neal would be downright crass. But it really bothered Peter, and whether it was out of lust or outrage, Neal was satisfied that he was definitely getting under Peter's skin.

Sometimes Neal would casually mention to Peter what he had been thinking about as he stroked himself the night before. Sometimes he would speculate at length about what he imagined Peter's semen tasted like. Peter would growl, "Knock it off, Neal!" but Neal would just smile and change the subject and then bring the topic up again just when Peter started to relax.

Neal had thought about pumping Elizabeth for information about Peter's personal 'preferences' but decided that would be too sleazy. And El would see right through it. And every time Neal called her, it seemed like she was having some work emergency and wouldn't talk to him, and half the time she didn't even take his call at all, so he didn't ask to see her. Honestly, he was relieved that he wouldn't have to face her while he was so... in the game.

Neal had a few other tricks. He had a few moves that made it seem like you were just walking together down the street, and one of you has to move to avoid a stroller or bike, and suddenly your bodies were pressed up together, through no seeming fault of your own, and your lips were so close it seemed like it would be more work _not _to kiss. Peter always looked a little nervous when Neal did those moves. Confirmation that Peter did feel something -- something that threatened Peter Burke's highly developed sense of self-control, much to Neal's delight. But really, making Peter nervous walking down the street together couldn't be the **only** fun to be had, could it?

Because really, when you're in a small office, is it really that hard to brush up against someone as you move to make a phone call or spread a blueprint? Neal didn't think so, and soon Peter could count on Neal's hip brushing against his dick whenever he walked by.

And when you're around someone a lot, working late hours until you're exhausted, it's easy to just end up leaning your body against his before he even notices it's there. And when Peter would gently press his hand on Neal's torso to push him away, Neal would make sure Peter knew exactly the effect his strong hands were having on Neal. Peter ignored these little rituals at first, thinking that maybe Neal would stop if he didn't get any reaction. But when Neal didn't back off, Peter went back to putting his foot down, using barked orders or his stern glares to show that he wasn't about to get caught up in whatever game Neal was playing now.

Neal just kept pushing. Neal followed the law to the letter, so that Peter would have no moral high ground, nothing to hide behind, and he would have to admit that it's the come-ons themselves that were making him so upset. He knew that Peter was hardly the type of guy who pushed or shoved someone for flirting too much, and Peter had never given cause for Neal to be scared of him physically, so that wasn't an issue the way it might be with some guys. And of course, Peter's criticisms and yelling and furious looks were by now old hat to Neal. Neal had toughened up ever since he found out Peter bugged him - that not only did Peter not trust him, but also that Peter had listened in on Neal basically confessing his love, and then had the nerve to feel sorry for Neal. Now, Neal was more concerned with winning than with his own feelings, and he decided to accept repeated emotional rejection from Peter as a necessary step toward his endgame. So Peter getting upset, Peter psychoanalyzing him, Peter telling him that he's hurting himself, Peter yelling and glaring, Peter's thousands of reasons and threats and excuses didn't do a thing to deter him.

Peter looked downright confused the moment he realized that his anger no longer had a cowing effect on Neal's behavior. He soon just started avoiding being next to Neal when they were alone, finding excuses to have Cruz or Jones in the room, seated between the two men. When Neal came within a couple of feet of Peter, he would jump up to get himself more coffee, taking the long way around the table to avoid whatever Neal was planning to do when he walked past. Peter, the badass agent who never lost his cool, was a different person as soon as he was stuck in a room alone with Neal. He became jumpy, like a overcaffeinated rabbit.

To Neal, it was exquisitely amusing. And he didn't feel guilty about this change in Peter; in fact, he felt pretty pleased with himself. This was a guerilla seduction after all, and guerilla warfare is based on one key element: unsettling the opponent. Making your opponent - the one you are trying to claim victory over- totally unable to go about business as usual without an attack. Being utterly unpredictable so that your opponent looks at even the most banal activities with fear. That bush might be five men with guns, that water bottle might be an explosive. That walk to the water cooler might somehow end up with Neal's hand on Peter's chest, that moment at the computer might involve Neal saying something a pornographer would gasp at. Peter couldn't do anything without thinking about how Neal might try to entice him. Which meant, de facto, that Peter had to spend all day thinking about how hard it was to resist Neal.

But Neal was no fool. Whenever it looked like Peter was about to burst a blood vessel in frustration, like Neal was about to push him too far, Neal would switch to the emotional tack. He would talk about growing up, about things that had happened to him in his early con days, in France, wherever. He even talked about what it was like when he was taken, tied up in that warehouse, a couple of times. And he wouldn't lie, because whenever Neal would tell Peter something true and hard to speak, Peter would look at him rapt, needing his words like they were bread in a famine.

Because Peter Burke was never one to turn down valuable information.

And it was hard, hard as hell, for Neal, saying all those things that he had never had to speak out loud, but sometimes a big score takes a big investment. Sometimes Neal would even talk about their relationship, honestly spilling out the reasons why Neal had been afraid to pursue him for so long, and why now he felt it was worth the risk. And Peter would look skeptical or troubled but he wouldn't tell Neal to shut up.

Usually.

One time, Neal just smiled his very best smile, the close-mouthed sweet smile that Peter seemed to like better than the high-wattage grin. And he told Peter, "We both know I'm just telling you this because I want you. And I know, I know, you're not in the mood for the 'same old crap,' as you call it. But I can be a patient man, Peter. Some day, maybe a week from now, maybe years from now, you'll be willing to give me a chance. And I'll be waiting for you. I promise."

Peter gave him a look and Neal, the conman par excellence, knew it was time to change the subject. So he told Peter more about Emile. Peter didn't interrupt him once.

Peter, of course, knew damn well Neal was playing him, but Neal knew that the desire to know would trump anything else. And then Neal would always finish his true stories - which still felt horrible to say out loud, even to Peter - with something to throw Peter off his game again, usually a more-than-suggestive comment about how Peter could make him forget all his regrets of the past, if only he would try this one thing that Neal's heard of, and wow does it sound like fun.

Peter would look angry and guilty and desirous all at once. And every time he did, Neal took it as a sign of victory.

So this was Neal's plan of attack. Relentless physical contact. Constant verbal sexual overtures. And emotionally overwhelming, brutally honest, painfully intimate conversations every once in a while to make it clear that even though this might be a game, it was a game with _stakes**. **_Neal was putting his secret self on the table, the closest thing he had to a true self, at the same time that he was, for the first time, really and truly trying to run a con on Peter Burke.

And since Peter was quite the workoholic still, rarely home before late at night, Neal made sure this sexual-psychological roller coaster was on full speed for a majority of Peter's waking hours, finding time to continue the onslaught even amid the most difficult cases.

Neal was very pleased when he noticed that Peter started to look bad. Bags under the eyes. Puffy lids. All the signs of insomnia or getting abnormal sleep. Neal told himself that Peter was up all night, tossing and turning, thinking of him.

Peter was on edge constantly, snapping not just at Neal but at all his coworkers. Neal decided he was obviosuly getting to him.

Peter was jumpy and frustrated and visibly miserable. Neal was satisfied that everything was going to plan.

After two months of constantly offering himself up to Peter, and more than just physically, Neal decided he deserved a little reciprocation. Just a little. He cornered Peter in the supply cabinet, spreading his arms across the doorway.

Peter didn't look impressed. Nervous and suspicious, but not impressed.

"Neal." That voice, that growl, that do-what-I-say-or-you-will-fucking-regret-it tone. Neal used to find it half intimidating, half thrilling. Now he just took at a sign that he was winning, that he had just scored a point.

"Peter. Have you ever thought about kissing me?" Neal asked with an innocent tone and a less-than-innocent raise of the eyebrow.

"Neal, get out of the way or-"

"Or you'll put those hot fucking hands all over me? Will you grab me in your arms and toss me out? I think you should drag me by the hair. Hurts more, but it's totally worth it."

Peter sighed and crossed his arms. "Say what you want to say, and then let's get back to work, hotshot."

Neal smiled. "I'm not asking you to kiss me, Peter. I just want you to admit that you've thought about it. Not asking for anything else. Today, anyway."

"Neal, enough.... Neal!"

"Yeah, say my name again, love that. Seriously, I will back off and not annoy you and be a good little FBI consultant the rest of the day if you tell me honestly whether you've ever thought about kissing me. Come on, Peter, momentarily imagining touching mouths? Not exactly going to rock your world. Hell, Jones has probably thought of kissing me. And he only marginally likes me. And I've thought about kissing tons of people. And we spend a lot of time together, and I talk about it all the time, so if you've never thought about so much as kissing me, it's obviously so important to you that you've totally repressed it."

Peter raised and eyebrow. "Really? You expect me to buy that line?"

Neal grinned. "Oh come on. It wasn't bad."

"Wasn't good."

"So what would be better? Come on, it's a good deal. You admit something we both already know, something totally innocent, something that almost any adult would think about any other mildly attractive adult he had to spend all day with. And I act like you don't exist for the rest of the day."

Peter stood there, not moved.

Neal sighed. "Fine. I'll play nice for a week. A week, Peter. If you say that you have briefly in some moment of curiosity wondered what it would be like to kiss me. You know it's a good deal."

Neal tried not to smile when he saw the corner of Peter's jaw waver. Peter looked tempted.

He also looked mad.

Not just because he knew Neal was playing him. He knew exactly why Neal wanted this. Neal could claim that this was a meaningless admission. Hell, for most people it would be - Peter wouldn't mind admitting to imagining kissing some other colleague in a moment of distraction. But this was Neal. Saying this, this tiny harmless admission, would be like giving a tug to a boulder hovering over him. It would be making something solid that wasn't.

But Neal was there, smiling. Repeating, "A week, Peter. A whole week."

Damn, did Peter need a week with Neal laying off. A week to just... catch his breath.

Neal wasn't even blocking the doorway any more. He was nearing Peter, letting the offer itself stand as Peter's obstacle. He slid up to Peter and waited.

Peter kept staring at his mouth.

Until he choked out, "Yes."

"Yes?" Neal spoke softly, a tuft of breath coming out his mouth, close enough to heat Peter's lips.

"Yes," Peter repeated with reluctance, seeming to loathe himself for the answer. Neal was pretty sure Peter just didn't like losing.

But he couldn't help pushing a little more. He said, "So you've ... wanted me? At some point?"

Peter gave him a look of warning.

"Hey, a whole week, I want to be clear on what you mean," Neal said, a little more smugly than he intended.

Peter said nothing, jaw set stubbornly.

Neal repeated: "You've wanted to kiss me. You've wanted _me."_

"Yes," Peter said, softly, bitterly, like he was confessing something so much worse.

Neal noticed. He put on his nonchalant face, said "Glad you told me, Agent Burke. Let's go work on that case now, shall we?", and exited the supply room, back turned so that Peter wouldn't see his glee. Because it wasn't just that he finally got Peter - Peter!- to admit that he wanted him. Neal had finally won a game with Peter Burke. And that meant any number of possibilities for their future.

* * *

Neal didn't stay away from Peter for a week.

The next day, Peter came in looking like a disaster. Not just the clothes, the man.

Neal was about to go in to ask what was wrong when Jones said, "Don't go in there, Caffrey. Trust me, bad idea."

"What happened? Did the witness back out?" Neal asked.

"If only," Cruz answered, "Elizabeth moved out last night."

Neal stopped and stared. "Is this - is this a joke? Did Peter tell you to tell me that?"

Cruz and Jones looked at him like he was seriously disturbed.

"Who the hell would make a joke of someone's marriage?" Cruz asked, bewildered at Neal's question.

Neal really didn't want to think about the answer to that one.

He looked through the glass door to Peter's office, saw from a distance the red puffy eyes of a man who probably hasn't cried since the fifth grade, and he walked away.

He did this. He knew it.

He had just been thinking about all the things he would do to mess with Peter's head once his week of good behavior was up. He was just thinking how fucking funny this whole thing was.

And now he had done this to Peter.

And he had done this to Elizabeth.

Elizabeth.

Had anyone ever been warmer and kinder and more understanding of his many faults that Elizabeth? Has anyone ever had less of a reason to befriend Neal Caffrey?

And he repaid her amazingness by trying to get her husband in bed.

He was so fucked in the head.

How could he not have thought ...

Did he really think that she wouldn't find out?

Did he really just think that Elizabeth wouldn't care?

Neal imagines her crying alone. Feeling betrayed. The life she built with Peter over years and years, demolished.

He almost vomits.

* * *

Neal tells himself that he's never destroyed anyone's life before. He's never seduced someone whose marriage wasn't done for anyway, he's never brought financial or personal ruin to anyone who didn't have the resources to build it back.

The truth is, he has to admit, that he's never really checked. He tried to mostly con either big wealthy institutions or individuals who kind of deserved it, but Neal was far from perfect in those goals. And he's never had to look at the aftermath of what he's done.

This may be the first time he isn't proud of being a conman.

But still. No matter what he callously chose to ignore in the past. This is the worst thing he's done.

Because he has never seen - never even imagined - a better marriage than Peter and Elizabeth's. And he's never known a better man than Peter and never known a better woman than Elizabeth, and the more he thinks about it, the more he thinks it can't possibly be just because he flirted a little with Peter, because that's an insane reason to break up a marriage, especially one like theirs.

But Neal knows in the cold pit of his gut that it damn well is his fault.

And in all his years, he had never taken_ anything_ from _anyone_ that was as valuable as their marriage.

Neal closes the shutters on his office. He puts his head in his hands.

It turned out that he wasn't a good guy who just happened to be more brilliant on the complementary side of the law.

He was exactly what Peter was afraid he was.

The guy who takes and hurts and doesn't care because it's fun. Because he can.

This time, Neal actually does vomit.

* * *

It's not until the evening, when everyone but Peter and Neal had gone home, that Neal so much as enters his office.

Peter hadn't bothered to check on him once that day.

"You heard," Peter said matter-of-factly.

Neal swallowed. He didn't know what to say. And Neal Caffrey always had something to say. But this time-

"It wasn't your fault," Peter said, matter-of-factly.

Neal grimaced, "The timing is just coincidence."

Peter looked down. "I've never been the husband she deserved."

Neal suddenly snapped at him, "Yeah, well she didn't seem to think that until recently! Seriously, you told her!? You couldn't even lie to her once? For your marriage's sake you couldn't tell a fucking **_lie of omission_**?"

Peter looked at him in bewilderment.

"Sorry," Neal said, immediately, "Sorry. I don't why I... sorry. But- you did tell her. Obviously."

Peter nodded. "I told her everything."

Neal was crushed by the hearing Peter say it, even though he knew it already. Peter's voice, making something solid that wasn't.

Neal responded, voice breaking a little, "Everything? Things you haven't said out loud to anyone, you told your wife?"

"Yup," he said, staring at the wall with tightened lips.

Neal swallowed again. "She must have been mad."

"Not at you."

"She should be," Neal answered.

Peter sighed. "She wasn't that mad at me, either. Considering how mad she should have been. She just decided that we needed some time apart. And that I need to take that time to 'figure things out.' And that she may... she may or may not come back to me, but that she cares about me always."

Leave it to Elizabeth to find a graceful way to dump a husband, Neal thought, wincing as he realized that even now, all he can think is that Elizabeth is pretty much his hero.

Peter filled the silence Neal left. "It wasn't your fault, Neal. It's been years of putting work before marriage. This was just the last..." he trailed off.

"What are you going to do?" Neal asked, his concern honest.

Peter looked at him, eyes ragged. He answered, with just a hint of apology in his voice, "I'm going to get her back."

Neal nodded. He left the room without further comment.

* * *

Neal stopped the game he was playing. The seduction of Peter Burke.

He did his best to be the most effective, most professional FBI consultant he could.

He didn't pursue or even flirt with anyone. Not with Peter, not with anyone.

He followed the letter of the law as best he could so Peter wouldn't have to deal with drama him while he was trying to work out his own life.

Moz noted the irony that Peter had finally got what he wanted: that he had tamed Neal, made him just like all the regular people who never thought too big or too bold, who didn't try to stand out. The irony that Peter finally got Neal to accept the astonishing fact that Neal Caffrey might not actually be able to get everything he wanted.

Neal wasn't even offended. He thought that maybe this would be some small comfort to Peter. But it's not like he ever mentioned it.

With Peter, Neal didn't mention much any more. He just tried to create distance. Room for Peter to look at the space around him and see that Elizabeth belonged next to him.

Neal knew that Peter had given him everything. His freedom, that rare gift of a real friendship, and a chance to do something for a living that was both exciting and honest. And he had saved Neal's life in more ways than one. And Neal had paid him back by making a big fucking game of all their lives. And maybe it wasn't just a game to Neal, maybe it was more than he's ever felt for anybody. Maybe he just never believed that anything could shake that marriage, or he never believed that Peter might actually feel something for him, or maybe he just did what he wanted and never considered what could happen. Didn't matter. He had intentionally messed with Peter's mind so that Peter would have feelings for someone other than his wife.

A little distance was the very least he owed Peter.

So Neal stayed away. He knew it wasn't his place to ask how Peter and Elizabeth were doing, if there was progress, but he noticed when Peter stopped spending every lunch hour leaving awkward messages on Elizabeth's voicemail. He waited for Peter to figure out something brilliant that would make Elizabeth see that Peter was still the man she loved but knew it wasn't at all appropriate to stick his nose in and offer suggestions. Neal was desperate for them to be together again, for something to happen that would mean that the things Neal had done were really just a temporary snag in their relationship, that Neal hadn't actually destroyed the lives of the two best people he knew, maybe the only two people who genuinely liked him for who he was.

It didn't happen. No happy reunion.

Some part of Neal wanted to know if maybe Peter would start looking at Neal the way he used to, back when neither of them really thought their feelings were all that dangerous. And some even worse part kept gnawing at him, telling him that Elizabeth had been gone for so long it didn't count as cheating any more, and maybe he should make his move. But then Neal reminded himself that he had already laid waste to Peter's life once, and the man gave no indication that he wanted to experience it again. And even if it weren't for the guilt, even if it weren't for the fact that a lack of divorce papers meant there was still some small hope for Peter and Elizabeth - though as months passed, it became less and less likely-- Neal knew that he wouldn't try again.

Because Peter knew how Neal felt about him; it was about ten miles past obvious at this point. So if Peter didn't want it, Neal wouldn't demand anything more than he had already taken from him.

And though Peter was clearly gutpunched by his separation from El, his reaction to the new subdued Neal Caffrey seemed... relieved. Peter went back to normal, went back to acting like even when he was miserable, nothing could faze him. He never showed any hint that he blamed Neal or was angry with Neal, but that was no surprise - Peter was a big fan of taking responsibility instead of blaming others. And eventually Peter went back to being kind but occasionally grumpy with Neal, and Neal went back to being cheerful and superficially antagonistic, but both of them just ignored the big THEM that was almost there but then wasn't. Both of them kept waiting to see if the old Neal or the old Peter might show up one day, but neither of them were willing to push it to happen.

Until the day came when they didn't have a choice.


	9. Change

AN: First person, Neal's POV.

* * *

The night before I run, I dream of Peter.

We are on a beach. Far from everything.

The light is too bright in our eyes, and the sand is too hot on our feet. But we don't care.

I hold his hands still even though they are pulling away, the hands somehow more impetuous than the man, straining to roam over me. But I rein his desire in, just for a moment, and somehow I am strong enough to grab tight and hold his hands in place. And then I look in his eyes and I ask him to tell me everything, to tell me all the ways he loves me.

He just smirks wickedly and says, "You first."

Even in my dreams, Peter is still Peter....

But then his hands are free. I don't remember how. I must have let them go.

And they're all over my body, the fingers rough with sand somehow, pressing and gliding and roaming, and his breath whispers in my ear, "You're all mine, Caffrey."

He is about to show me what that means when the alarm sounds.

I swipe at it until the snooze works. Dreamworld is better.

I tell my mind to go back, I fix on the image of sand on his fingers and I relax into unconsciousness and try let the image take me back.

To the ocean. I tell my mind to smell the salt, the heat, tell it to ignore the dark room and see only the blinding bright of the shore and sky. Only the sandy expanse of Peter's eyes and mouth and shoulder and stomach and cock. I tell my mind to go someplace where Peter can't control himself, and I can't think of any reason why he should.

Just as I get dream-Peter back where he was, the alarm goes off again. I bash at it, but this time the clock falls off the nightstand, still beeping.

I reach down to get it and nearly fall off the bed. When I finally silence it, I'm too awake to slip into that dream again.

I sigh as I realize I'm going to have to get up and go to work. I kick at the covers a little in resentment. Even after all of Peter's efforts to change how I think, I still think sometimes about reality, and its inescapability. And accepting the world as it is? Kind of like hearing a cruel stupid joke and pretending you think it's funny.

But maybe Peter has trained me well after all. Because I am accepting the reality.

I am choosing to do the smart thing, rather than the thing that lets me be with the person I love.

Peter would be so proud. If it weren't for the fact that I'm running.

* * *

It will surprise him to know that I've thought this through.

I won't be caught this time. For one thing, I know how they find people now.

And besides, I won't be tempted into doing the things that get most people caught: being tempted into another job, another score. Thinking you just NEED that wine, that suit, that painting, that everyone with a computer and a clearance knows you think you need. Really, if you try not to be the type of person that gets noticed, you don't take many risks, you avoid luxury items, and you truly let go of any hope of seeing people you care about, it's easy to disappear.

Of course none of these things are easy for me. But Peter has done his best to annoy, guilt, and scare me into changing into the kind of guy who doesn't need the thrill of the con, who doesn't need the ego boost of the brilliant forgery. And while working cases has many of the same highs, the same thrills, it's not the same. I don't even miss the 'criminal life' that much any more. I've been domesticated.

It should really make me angrier than it does. When I agreed to let Peter Burke own me, I sure as hell didn't mean that he could turn me into the kind of guy who can see what he wants and shrug and decide that if I can't have it, then oh well. But it's been two years since Peter and Elizabeth separated, and I still haven't found a way to say, 'Hey Peter, thanks for saving me from myself and by the way sorry I ruined your life, you wanna make out or something?'

And living like that, literally inches away from what I want most... I understand now. Why we resent those who get whatever they want.

So it looks like Peter got to rehabilitate me after all. I don't think I'll be committing any more felonies. Except of course for escaping federal custody.

Never talking to Moz will be hard. He cried when I told him but he said I was right, it was safer for him and me both.

It's safer for everyone.

Okay, yeah, Peter might be able to catch me. But if I convince him not to chase me, I don't think anyone else will be able to. Hell, even before I went all disgustingly boring, Peter Burke was the only one who could catch me. So if he lets me go, I'll be able to fade away, get lost in that ocean of people, with their lives of quiet desperation.

I should fit right in.

Great. Now I'm boring, normal, AND self-pitying.

* * *

Peter smiles at me when I arrive at the office. No time for small talk, though: we're off to prison. He no longer jokes about sending me there, which I'm thinking means he trusts me now.

We have to figure out something from the case we're working on now, and Peter wants me to help interview a prisoner at the facility. I got the blueprints of the facility last night, and Moz bribed someone for the security details. I am prepared.

I go through it again and again, not just the plan but the whole situation, thinking that maybe I've missed something, maybe there's another way. I wait for brilliance, for inspiration, the night before, the morning of. It doesn't come.

On the drive over to the prison, Peter talks about how we should approach the questioning. I'm not really been paying attention. Mostly I just nod and act on board while I think about what it's going to be like for Peter when I leave. Now that El's gone, really all he has is his career. And his credibility, maybe even his job, is going to be trashed by what I'm about to do.

When he brought me into his life, he probably didn't know I was just going to shatter it to pieces and then casually walk away.

Okay, not casually. And it's not like I knew that this would happen. But still. Peter really, really deserves to have someone who will never leave him, no matter what. But it doesn't seem like it's going to be me....

I really should have stayed in prison.

Maybe if I had, I would be out on good behavior already. I might look Peter up. He might decide I needed someone watching me. He and Elizabeth would both look out for me. I would make better choices. Or at least different choices. I could be over at their house right now, me and El telling Peter he should enjoy his breakfast instead of rushing off to...

Okay. No. Reality. Not fantasy.

And the reality is that I'm dead if I don't run. And if Peter tries to protect me, then he's dead too. And so is Cruz and Jones and Diana and maybe even Reece, because they would help protect me too. And besides, if someone killed Peter or maybe even me, they wouldn't stop, and that would end badly for them.

So I leave Peter. Or I get our team killed.

Did I just think 'our team'? I meant the admirable individuals whom I care about despite their institutional affiliation.

Dammit. I really am domesticated.

* * *

I was 19. And an idiot.

I heard rumors that he was powerful. Connected. I conned him anyway.

Took his whole art collection, left forgeries behind. I ingratiated myself for months, posing as an art restoration intern, so I would have time to get in and look closely at the originals while I made all the copies. When I left, it was on good terms. He hugged me even, laughing and pounding a slap on my back.

He didn't notice the forgeries for months, and by then I was long gone.

The art dealer who pointed out the forgery to him disappeared. The man in charge was in embarrassed, humiliated, made a fool of by some kid. The dealer was expendable, and word had it that he didn't want anyone with knowledge of my con to survive to talk.

But someone must have lived to talk. Because I kept hearing about the bodies piling up. The art restorer who I had claimed to intern for, whom I had never met but whose name I had used. The maid who let me charm my way in through the kitchen entrance. The lieutenant who told the man in charge that he had a hunch I was a good kid. Anyone who could be blamed, died.

I picked my marks better after that. Because there are a lot of people who will kill me for pulling a con, even people who will kill my friends. But it takes a crazy damn psycho to kill HIS friends because he's mad at me.

I didn't get caught by him, though he put out a bounty. I was lucky enough that I got less gangly-looking over the next couple of years and didn't look the same. And it's not like I used my real name. And I really was good at being both flamboyant with my success and still under the radar, if I do say so myself. Even Mozzie says that if it weren't for Peter catching me, most people would think of 'Neal Caffrey' as more legend than man. And Mozzie's not exactly quick to praise.

So I still dreamt about him sometimes, but I had pretty much lucked out, I thought.

Until that case we closed a few months ago. The trial wasn't until yesterday, and I had sat in when Peter testified, the first witness for the prosecution. Some of the mark's - or, the perp's - colleagues were there, though we hadn't seen them on the case itself, and one kept staring at me. I felt a cold rush of something, fear I haven't felt in a while. And then I remembered where I saw him.

He was a runner for the man I had conned all those years ago. And it looked like he was moving up in the world, had left his homeland to live the American criminal dream. But that hardly meant that he was out of contact with the old country. And he was looking at me so closely, and people can recognize things in person that they can't from a photo.

I ducked out of the courtroom. Peter asked me why later, but I told him it was a bad sandwich at lunch. He could tell I was lying, but he lets me have my secrets now, waits for me to be ready to tell him.

He trusts me that much now.

So I took advantage of that and went home early to do research on the man I had conned. I should have done it sooner but I was trying so damn hard to forget him, and all the people who shouldn't have died at his hands, who died because I wanted a Redon and a Tanning and a Bocklin. But Mozzie helped me research, and he - a total conspiracy theorist - thought it was the most disturbing thing he'd ever heard. Because he had the rep of going so over the top that mobsters, assassins, and even dictators were afraid to cross him. And none of the governments where he did business had ever been able to touch him. The closest was in Germany, where intelligence officers and Interpol agents worked together to protect a witness who had evidence against him. The witness was taken- no one knows what he suffered before he died - and all seventeen agents and officers in the building at the time were gunned down, few surviving. And somehow no media frenzy followed, and no big takedown. Somehow the man's contacts, his reputation, his wealth - and his control over large areas necessary to the transportation of natural resources, weapons, and everything else used to build societies - meant that he was untouchable.

If I waited to see if this would become a problem, by the time I figured it out, it would be too late.

And the way that guy was looking at me in the courtroom....

This was going to be a problem.

The thing is, as romantic as it sounds to die tragically with and/or for the one you love, I've never had any desire to actually do it. Honestly, I think some things are better off in the opera house or theatre than in real life. Personally, I think Romeo and Juliet should have stolen some money, ran off together, and make sure no one ever again even knew their last names were Montague and Capulet. Problem solved.

And don't even get me started on Antony and Cleopatra.

Not that I don't empathize. With lovers who would rather choose their own fate than have it chosen for them.

But still, dying a noble death? Getting other people killed to boot?

There's no romance in that. Just puss and blood pouring into bullet wounds, turning your cells toxic.

Life may be a stage, but I'll go for existentialism over high tragedy. I'll be miserable. But there are worse things than miserable.

* * *

When Mozzie stopped crying, he agreed to help me plan. Good thing, because my head wasn't exactly on straight.

It turns out the prison we're visiting has a large section of empty cells. The old fashioned kind, not electronically controlled, which is why they're no longer in use.

The kind that automatically lock when you close them. A whole section of them, in which someone could yell to their heart's content and no one would hear. Not patrolled, since it would be locked up and off limits to anyone but an FBI agent who's been given all the keys.

All I have to do is lift Peter's cellphone so he can't call anyone. I'll take the bullets out of his gun, too. Not because Peter would shoot me, just so when they investigate how I escaped, no one will accuse Peter of anything. Since I'll be at work, no one will be monitoring me, so I can wait until I'm at Grand Central Station to slice off the anklet binding me to the FBI. When I do that, they'll try to call Peter's phone. I'll answer and tell them I attacked Peter Burke and left him in the abandoned wing of the prison, right before I toss the phone.

So all I have to do is get to the prison and tell Peter that a source informed me that a corrupt guard has hidden evidence in one of the empty cells, but we need to go alone since anyone working there might be in on it. And he'll do it. Because he's smart and Peter's biggest weakness is that he trusts me.

I'll lead Peter to a cell and close the door behind him.

And then he'll be trapped. And he'll have no choice but to let me explain everything.

He'll have to listen. Because as much as I tell myself that the only way I'm getting away is if the FBI has to start their search for me without Peter's help, I know that the real reason for my plan is that after everything, I can't just leave a note or send a letter. I have to explain. I have to make him understand _why_ before I can go.

There was a time when I wouldn't care that much about the listening. I would have been busy savoring the irony that _I _am trying to lock _Peter Burke_ in prison.

Right now, it doesn't seem as funny as it should.

* * *

The plan works.

Peter notices several times this morning that I'm not myself. He keeps asking if I'm okay. But he doesn't push, doesn't press.

He walks into the empty cell.

When the door slams, he looks annoyed. His 'stop-screwing-around-Neal' frown.

Then he sees me, standing there, pathetically trying to find the words, and he knows.

This is not an act.

He shakes his head violently, anger and fear and all those things he is usually is so good at repressing. He yells and tells me all the reasons I can't, I shouldn't, I won't.

I seem to recall imagining it would be easier than this to get a word in.

But no one can hear us. And finally he lets me explain.

Shaking his head no, the whole time. Waiting for me to finish, stacking up counterarguments in his head to use against me.

I answer all of them.

He tells me he will protect me, the full force of the FBI will protect me.

"Peter, you know better than anyone. The person hunting can fail for years, the one being hunted only has to mess up once."

He tells me that we can work with Interpol, put this guy away.

I tell him why that can't happen. I remind him he taught me that the world doesn't work the way we want just because we want it.

He tells me he'll find me.

I tell him, "You'll be killing us both if you do. And besides, they won't let you look for me again. You'll be taken off the case. For getting too close, for getting them to trust me."

That last one almost kills me.

He isn't fazed. Argument after argument, and I just want this to be over, because with every answer I give, I'm saving him, but with every answer I'm also betraying him, again and again and again. He repeats questions and I repeat answers.

I start to think Peter might just be better at denial than I am. I stand there, my hands on the bars as he stands next to the door, his hands on the bars right below mine, almost touching. For a moment, I think he might be trying to distract me.

But as we argue, as he yells and threatens and cajoles and reasons and yells again, I can see that he is starting to see. And he doesn't want to, he hates that he is starting to see.

Peter understands. He sees the logic. I can tell.

So he pulls out his trump card.

"You promised me, Neal. Total ownership. _You promised me."_

I don't have an answer. Instead, "I'm sorry."

"Sorry..." he mocks, voice bitter. "If you're sorry, don't run! You say you trust me, Neal, trust me to _protect _you."

I repeat myself, and it has never hurt so much to tell the truth, and for me that's saying something. "I leave and everyone lives, I stay and everyone dies."

"Were you conning me, Neal? Huh? Were you conning me this whole time?!"

He knows that's not true. He knows and he saying because he thinks I'll lose it, I'll break if he says it.

He's kind of right.

I feel the blood rise in my face, I feel the anger taking over my words. "Who the fuck do you think you're talking to Peter?! I gave up conning for you! I gave up stealing for you! I risked my life for you! I gave up _you,_ stopped chasing you when I wanted you more than anything, because I thought it would help you. I have given you things I never thought I would even be capable of giving, Peter! I gave you everything I was and everything I have, and I would do anything for you, BUT I WILL NOT WATCH YOU DIE FOR ME!!"

And then I stop. Because Peter looks broken.

More precisely. He looks like I broke him. He understands. He must or he would still be fighting.

I manage to stay standing. His face is still near mine but his eyes are closed.

I realize he doesn't want to have to watch me go.

I whisper "I'm sorry," again and I take my hands off the bars. I start to turn. I am slow and sad and trying not to think of anything but the fact that reality is a bad joke. For a second, I stop paying attention.

And then suddenly there's metal pressing into my chest.

Peter's eyes are open now. He's not the one who couldn't watch, turns out.

His hand has reached through the bars and grabbed my shirt. He's holding it in his fist, pulling me against the bars.

And I panic.

The first time I have ever panicked when I was with Peter.

And if you're used to danger, if you're a smart enough conman to handle the pressure, panic won't make you stop thinking. It makes you think faster. And in that second, as I felt Peter's hand pulling me in, I thought a hundred different things, none of them good.

So besides the 'Nononononothiscan'tbehappening,' there was 'How could I have been so stupid? How could I have been so trusting?' Because I never thought that Peter might just reach through and physically force me to stay, and now he could slam me against the bars or grab my neck and make me pass out, or any other damn FBI thing he wanted to do, and I have never truly been physically afraid of Peter until that moment, and Peter would never want to hurt me, and I'm an IDIOT for thinking that he would let me walk out, because he IS going to hurt me, and Peter physically hurting me, hurting me and meaning it, is terrifying and horrible and unthinkable but still I'm so STUPID for not even thinking of it. And this can't be happening, I can't have just made Peter HATE me and for no reason but now I won't be able to get away and he hates me and I betrayed him for NO REASON.

And I pull away, panicked, but even with both my hands pushing away, Peter's grip is stronger, and I am suddenly reminded of how much bigger he is, and I look in his eyes to face how angry he is and because if he's going to bash me into these damn bars he's going to have to look me in the eyes while he's doing it.

But when I look at Peter in the eye finally, his are watering as much as mine are, and I can see, then, clearly this time.

He understands that I have to run. He's as wrecked and pissed off about as I am, but he sees it.

But he's not letting go, something is stopping his fist from unclenching, and I'm about to tell him again that I'm sorry, I'm so so sorry, but then he rushes at me, and his lips are on mine, and our faces are pressing, almost smashing against the bars, but I _am kissing_ Peter.

And it's perfect and hot and warm and bitter and needy and rough and desperate and full and .

And I know, in that moment, I know for sure, that it has not all been in my head, that everything I felt - those tidal waves of need that made me think I was going crazy - he felt them too. And I know that it wasn't just me, it was never just me.

All this time, Peter was drowning too.

And I know this moment, this one perfect kiss, would be all we would get, and that's wrong, so stupid and awful and wrong, and I close my eyes tight and try so hard to will this moment into lasting forever, but then Peter's mouth leaves me, and my lips feel crushed in every way a person can be crushed, and I actually whimper when his lips leave mine. And then he smiles at me, and it's the fucking saddest smile I've ever seen on anybody, but he finds the strength to smile even though I can barely find the strength not to cry or collapse.

And his hand lets go of my shirt. Lets go of me.

And the lack of pressure on my chest feels brutal.

And then he says, "I wish -- I should have..."

He is looking at me with pain his eyes, and even though I feel like I finally just met the real Peter, for a second, and I know it's irrational, but for a second, I think he's going to say "I wish I had left you in jail."

And for that second I think I just might shatter. But he finishes. "I should have done things differently, Neal. I -- " his voice breaks again, "I was just trying to do right by you."

And that's the worst reason I can think of, that may be the cruelest stupidest joke I've ever heard, but I can't even hate him for it. Because at this moment, I think if he asked me to stay with him, I would. I would do that doomed-lovers-who-get-each-other-killed bullshit that I had always thought was so dumb, I would stay with him and never stop touching him and just try to have as much of him as I could before everything goes dark and bloody. I would die for him if he asks me at this moment.

But Peter is stronger than me.

And I can see in his eyes that he forgives me, that he understands, that he hates it as much as I do, but he forgives me for leaving him even though I already know I won't forgive myself. And I should hate him for not telling me, for waiting until our last day, our last minute together, to let me know what is going on in that brain of his, but I can't hate him or blame him. On this one, we both outsmarted ourselves.

And this man, who has never been able to stop telling me what to do with my life, gives me one last order as he nods toward the exit, using that Peter voice that tells you he means it, that there will be no failing him on this one. "Be safe, Neal," he tells me, and as his lips say my name, I realize that this will be the last time I hear his voice.

And right then, I don't want to be safe. I want to fall down and sleep in Peter's arms and dream of the ocean forever.

But Peter has just told me to do what I have to do, and I can't think of anything worse than having _Peter Burke_ love me enough to tell me run from a prison and then letting him down. Which I guess means I'm still an owned man after all.

So I run. I act casual as I leave the prison, showing my ID, and no one points out that my eyes and my lips are both red.

As soon as I get off prison property, I start to run as fast as I can. I don't have to go this fast yet, but I run, faster than I have in years. I run and I run and I run, until I am nothing but the sound of my own blood pumping, and the blur in my eyes of the things that I pass.


End file.
